Flight of Aquavit (36 page)

be and whether she was dangerous. Was it a coin-

cidence that she began following me immediately

after my lunch with James Kraft? Was he more sin-

ister and better connected than I’d given him cred-

it for? Was my accusing him of being Loverboy a

Anthony Bidulka — 285

big mistake? Had he put a hit out on me? On the

other hand, if this was the same woman I’d seen in

our hotel the day before I even met James Kraft,

that theory didn’t hold water. So then who was

she? Who in New York City would have reason to

set a tail on me?

Parka Woman circled back onto Fifth Avenue

and kept on trucking south towards 42nd Street

where she turned right before the New York

Public Library, passing Bryant Park with its

charming bistro tables, merry-go-round and

imprisoned typewriters. I knew Grand Central

Station and the Empire State Building were some-

where nearby too but I didn’t see either.

A couple of blocks later she turned right again

onto Broadway Avenue. She was no dummy. She

was undoubtedly accustomed to the amazing

sights to be seen on this world-renowned street. I,

however, was literally agog.

Dorothy was no longer in Kansas.

Broadway is a paradise of sorts. Even in the

light of day it shines with the brilliance of newly

coined money. Like a photograph enlarged for a

closer look, the proportions are larger than life-

size. Any of the buildings plopped down into any

other city, large or small, would look to be a

dinosaur amongst pygmies. Broadway Avenue

itself isn’t about the theatres. Most of the theatres

are actually half a block or more off Broadway on

one of the side streets. Broadway Avenue is all

about the signs. They are everywhere, they are

big, they are bright, they are in-your-face, they are

like billboards falling from heaven, advertising all

286 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

the world has to offer.

And it’s about the people. Crowds of people

moving at high speeds in every direction like ants

escaping a shot of Raid. And not just tourists and

not just fashion models and not just artsy-type

actors and their nebbishy agents, but rather a

swirling mixture of all human subtypes from the

society madam to the mohawked skateboarder.

The one thing they all have in common? They

move fast.

Parka Woman was looking to lose me. And she

knew just how to do it. She led me to Times

Square. I swear I looked up for only a moment,

distracted by movie, television and singing stars,

beckoning me from a menagerie of signs on high,

to see their career-rejuvenating turns in
The Naked

Producer from Chicago on a Hot Tin Can of Hairspray
.

When I looked back down…she was gone. And all

the while I was still moving forward, propelled by

the momentum of the crowd. I tried to stop, get

my bearings, find the only parka with fur and

embroidered trimming in New York City, but to

no avail. It was hopeless.

For a while I wondered what would happen if I

allowed the wave of people to carry me. Where

would it eventually deposit me? Or would it?

Maybe we’d move along together forever. I fought

off an uncharacteristic shot of panic. With a brisk

and purposeful pace, I was able to regain control of

my own destiny (and destination). I knew however

that if I ever gave it up, even for a moment to

debate which way to go, I’d be sucked back into the

maelstrom and end up transported several blocks

Anthony Bidulka — 287

past where I wanted to be. Wherever that was.

At 57th Street I caught a break in the human

train and veered off Broadway. By this point I was

so weary from carrying my shopping bags, each of

which had somehow turned into cast iron, I bare-

ly stopped to examine Carnegie Hall. I thought

about hailing a cab but I could sense I was close to

Fifth Avenue and managed to trudge along until I

saw The Sherry-Netherland sign. No sweeter

sight.

After my strenuous afternoon, jockeying about

Manhattan chasing the elusive Parka Woman, I

was happy to start our evening close to home at

the hotel’s restaurant, Harry Cipriani. That deci-

sion made, there was only one question left to

answer. Perhaps the biggest question of all when

dining in New York City. Do you eat before the

theatre or after the theatre? The “in” crowd eats

after—a more likely time to catch sight of a star (if

you aren’t one yourself)—but by the time your

play has ended and you’ve made it to your restau-

rant of choice (if you can even get a reservation) it

can be close to midnight. And
then
you start eat-

ing? Who are these people? They must not get

home until 2 a.m. Don’t they have jobs to go to in

the morning? Sereena informed me that it was

absolutely respectable to eat prior to a show and

that’s just what we did. Besides, I had already

spotted Pat Boone and daughter Debbie. What

more could I hope for?

Although not a landmark establishment, I

288 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

quickly realized that Harry Cipriani has its own

“in” crowd. And with Sereena on my arm, I was

part of it. Cipriani’s was created in the image and

atmosphere of some place called Harry’s Bar in

Venice, Italy. I’d never heard of it, but if the replica-

tion was genuine then it too has delicious Italian

fare and delicious Italian men who greet you at the

door in a rough and brutish maître d’ sort of way.

A big man named Mario who, with an inexpli-

cable glint of recognition and complicity in his

eye, addressed Sereena as “my dear and lovely,

Missus Smith,” boisterously welcomed us. He was

a fully maned lion in heat, six-foot-three and sim-

mering with nearly unrestrained sensuality. He

looked comfortable in his black tuxedo but you

could easily imagine him chopping up hunks of

red meat in a butcher’s shop. Sereena did her part,

wearing a creamy white piece of clingy material

that hung off her shoulders by way of strings of

sparkling, multi-coloured gems, and was cut

extremely low in front and even lower in back.

Her hair was dramatically pulled away from her

face, proudly showing off the signs of life that lived

there, including a tiny scar at the apex of her chin.

Women, men, staff and guests alike stared at her

when she entered the room and for some time

afterwards. My new suede jacket barely regis-

tered—though I’m quite certain more than a few

eyes looked covetously at my wonderpants.

After we were seated in the centre of one of the

two main dining areas—better for all to feast on

the dish called Sereena—I began to notice a certain

well-designed regimen, a play of sorts, acted to

Anthony Bidulka — 289

perfection by the Harry Cipriani people.

Immediately following our arrival a group of six

arrived. They were obviously well-known to the

maître d’, for he flirted with the women in a most

obvious and lascivious way and with the men he

alternated between hearty back slaps, whispering

something into their ears, and slipping something

(who knows what—cigars maybe?) into their

breast pockets. He then made a cacophonous pro-

duction of showing them to one of the many “best

tables in the house” and yelling for a server (of

equally hirsute and husky proportions) to shower

them with attention, but only after convincing

them to begin with an impossibly, excruciatingly

perfect bottle of red. And that wasn’t the end of it,

for throughout the evening this roughhewn host

would often return to the table as if he’d only just

caught sight of the group and would fawn at their

sides with exaggerated solicitude.

The next diners to arrive, two men and two

women, although equally spiffed up for a night on

the town and looking as if it’d been a while since

they’d set foot in a Burger King, received a much

different treatment. The host was not familiar with

them and, although amazingly charming, he was

reserved compared to his earlier behaviour

(although both seemed quite sincere). He asked a

few pointed questions to determine their inten-

tions towards his restaurant and the evening,

expertly categorized them in an instant (tacky

tourists, show goers, wannabes, money spenders,

no-fun-nics) and then seated them accordingly (in

a quiet corner in the room next to ours).

290 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

Our meal sounded like standard fare, veal and

pasta, but tasted gloriously unlike anything I had

ever eaten before. I ate ravenously between furtive

glances about, checking for Parka Woman.

Sereena did little more than look at the repast,

busy as she was being flattered and courted by

most of the men in the place. Afterwards we

donned our coats and caught a cab arranged by

our gracious host. Minutes later we were at the St.

James Theatre for the 8 p.m. performance of
The

Producers
. Although Sereena didn’t roll in the

aisles with laughter with the rest of us, she cer-

tainly cracked a smile or two.

There are probably a million (small-town-boy

exaggeration) gay bars and restaurants in New

York City but it seemed my experience wasn’t

going to be that varied. The Townhouse nightclub

is only a short walk from the restaurant of the

same name where I’d met James earlier for lunch.

Before we’d parted he’d told me he’d be at the

club waiting for me. I had offered no promises,

but now, buoyed by the excitement of being in

New York City on a Friday night, fresh from excel-

lent entertainment, food and drink, I’d decided to

find what there was to find. Besides, I assured

myself, this was work. I had to make certain James

Kraft was not Loverboy and hadn’t sent Parka

Woman to follow me.

Leaving Sereena with some friends at a cham-

pagne bar called Flute, I caught a cab to The

Townhouse. After being deposited on a dark street

Anthony Bidulka — 291

I found and scooted up a set of stairs that took me

into the bar. Upon entering I hesitated for a

moment to take in the scene. I was Neil Armstrong

landing on the moon. One small step for gay man,

one giant leap for gay mankind from Saskatoon.

Inside was an unusual combination of gay night-

club and sedate Boston fern bar. The space was

long and narrow and divided into several distinct

areas like the restaurant, but unlike the restaurant

it was crowded and noisy. Gazing down the tun-

nel where I stood to the farthest corners of the bar

was like looking through a rotating kaleidoscope,

the swirling mass of men like so many pieces of

colourful glass and paper constantly moving and

changing shape as they flitted about their play-

ground. And I wanted to play.

I initially moved through the collection of

partiers with ease but found the going rougher

with each successive room, the noise growing

louder, the writhing more pronounced, until final-

ly I reached the last room where suddenly, as if

protected by some invisible barrier, the din disap-

peared. And there I found James, sitting on a stool

next to a small table situated under a painting of a

hunting dog and hunter. He was nursing a beer

and listening to a piano player who was maybe in

his early twenties but singing standards in a voice

that was three times his age. I gave the sedate

room a once over and noticed that most couples

were of the old-rich-guy-in-shirt-and-tie (and in a

few unfortunate cases a smoking jacket) and very-

young-guy-in-tight-jeans-and-T-shirt variety. I

scored a beer from a goateed bartender and

292 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

approached James. He was wearing tight jeans

and a T-shirt. His hair, now released from ponytail

bondage was a glorious blond tangle around his

surprisingly patrician, aristocratic-looking face.

He might have been a Roman emperor surveying

his gladiators or a young prince assessing his sub-

jects. When I slid onto the chair next to him he